Songs About Santana
by somebodys-blues
Summary: Twelve Quinntana one-shots set to the songs on the Maroon 5 album Songs About Jane.


**Credit for this idea goes to my best friend. It came up while we were discussing the times when our precious Maroon 5 was actually a mind-blowingly good band (approximately 2002-2007). If you like **_**Teen Wolf**_**, check out his Sterek interpretation of the concept: "Songs About Stiles" by Ghar.**

**Songs About Jane is one of the defining albums of my life. I highly recommend it, but knowing it isn't necessary to understand these stories.**

* * *

_When it gets cold outside & you got nobody to love_

* * *

In an upscale Chicago eatery, two friends were having an amiable disagreement.

"Shut the fuck up. Now."

Mike was startled by a brief vision that crossed his mind. He imagined his dinner companion whipping out numerous razor blades from her hair and hurling them in his direction. Sure, Santana had mellowed out since high school. But the ferocity in her eyes told Mike that he best be backing down soon.

Soon, but not just yet.

"Alright! Alright." Mike held up his hands in surrender and took back the flyer he had attempted to give to Santana. "You're no fun."

"Yeah, well, I don't have time for _fun _tonight, Chang. My campaign is-"

"Your campaign is fine, Santana! It's more than fine. It's spectacular. It will get you a promotion. So just chill."

At this, Santana's mouth curved into a small, genuine smile. Mike may have been pissing her off royally, but it was always nice to hear some well-deserved praise. Especially since no one else ever seemed to offer it to her.

"You know what could help you relax..." Mike continued, as he slowly slid the flyer back to his friend.

Santana calmly picked up the glossy piece of paper and ripped it in half. "Yes, Michael, I do know. A nice, strong margarita will help me relax. So while I go get one, take care of the check, will you?"

She then leaned in closer to Mike and whispered menacingly, "If you're still going on about this when I get back, I will rip you limb from limb."

After stuffing a final bite of pasta into her mouth, Santana headed towards the bar in the back of the restaurant. The young man she left at the table stared after her in wide-eyed fear. It was time to throw in the towel. If Santana was going to reject his helpful suggestion, then there was nothing Mike could do. He didn't want to take any more chances. He was quite attached to his limbs.

* * *

Damn, that tiny drink was a lot stronger than Santana thought possible. The unsteady _click-click-click_ of her heels on the concrete was beginning to give her a migraine. Mike's incessant rambling about the latest successful ventures of his beloved wasn't helping.

"I knew she could do it. Isn't that awesome?" No response. "Santana?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, that's great. Great for Tina. Go Tina."

The wind hit them hard, blowing Santana's already tousled hair even more out of place. She buttoned up her peacoat and tightly wrapped her arms around herself. Agitated and shivering, Santana couldn't help but surge with a minor flash of jealousy. Her friend would be going home to his loving wife while the only thing waiting for Santana was an empty loft.

Single life in the city certainly came with its advantages, but East coast winters always had a way of making her wish she had someone to love.

Previously, a string of interchangeable warm bodies to snuggle up to sufficed. But even that was out of reach lately. With work consuming every moment of Santana's free time, the young woman had been dateless for the better part of the year.

Another frosty burst of wind crashed upon the pair. Santana closed her eyes, trying to will away the piercing sensation of ice in her lungs. She felt Mike flinch next to her at the assault and wondered why the cold was so vicious tonight. By the time they made it to Santana's building, she had sobered up a bit.

"Listen," Santana said as she dug around her purse in search of her keys. "Maybe I shouldn't have snapped at you earlier. I know you were just..."

She froze as her fingers grasped something foreign, something she knew did not belong in her flawless Steve Madden bag. Santana pulled the offending item out and took a moment to blink through her cloudy vision. In her hand was one half of a familiar glossy flyer.

"I told you I didn't want this shit!" Santana began to yell, but Mike was already running down the street. He turned and waved at his enraged friend, a goofy smile covering his face.

"Limb from limb, Chang! LIMB! FROM! LIMB!"

* * *

Still fuming after her shower, Santana plopped down on the couch and sighed. Mike had some nerve, the bastard. How dare he suggest that Santana ought to stoop to such trashy levels? She may have been hard up but she was not _that_ desperate. Right? With her eyes closed, she tried to recall the last time she had been with someone.

It was the redhead from accounting. Santana remembered her as cute but too polite, a good kisser but timid where it really counted. It turned into nothing more than a one night stand. Santana liked a girl with a little more edge to her. Besides, office affairs were so uninspired.

That redhead left the agency a while back, though. Wait. Exactly _how long _had Santana gone without sex?

Oh. Oh, no.

With horror, she realized that it had been well over eight months.

Eight months! This type of thing just shouldn't happen to highly attractive people like herself. She was Santana Lopez, the smartest, sexiest up-and-coming advertising executive this side of the Mississippi and she wasn't going to stand for this dry spell any longer.

Even if it meant calling a phone sex hotline.

After taking a shot of whiskey to curb her uncertainty, Santana picked up and smoothed out the flyer she had crumpled earlier. She brought it - along with her cell phone, another shot, and what was left of her dignity - to her room and sat up against the headboard of the small bed.

Santana gaped at the tacky, gaudy half-flyer in disgust. It was covered in poorly designed rainbow-colored silhouettes of naked women. The banner underneath the number, 1-888-GRL-ZONE, proudly boasted "Chicago's premiere hotline for girls who love girls!" in alternating upper and lowercase letters.

_Ugh, _Santana thought. _They need to seriously rethink their marketing strategy._

_Well, at least the first five minutes are free._ Santana downed her second shot and reveled in the pleasant burn that lingered in her throat. _You're not being a creep or a loser or pathetic, you're simply tending to your needs. This could be fun. It's a perfectly legitimate way to blow off steam. _

With a deep breath, Santana dialed the number.

_Enough justification. Just enjoy this._

"Thank you for calling Girl Zone. For the next available operator, press 1. To request a specific operator, press 2. "

_This recording better not count towards my five free minutes, _Santana thought as she pressed 1. After a couple rings, someone picked up.

"Hello beautiful. My name is Lucy. What can I do for you, baby?"

Santana's nervous, racing heart instantly stopped.

She knew that voice, that sensual, whispery drawl. Everyday for four years Santana listened to that voice go on about Finnocence and Gay-Berry, bark orders at Cheerios practice, sweetly croon in the choir room, and maybe even offer up some helpful advice once or twice.

It was Quinn Fabray. Quinn fucking Fabray. Catholic teen mom and celibacy club president Lucy Quinn Fabray was now an operator for a lesbian phone sex line.

Was this actually happening? Was this real life?

No. Santana was drunk. She was fucking wasted and her alcohol-soaked mind was imagining impossible scenarios.

"Is anybody there? Don't tease me when I'm this wet and ready for you..."

The voice spoke again, confirming Santana's suspicions. She officially entered panic mode.

_This is Quinn, no doubt about it. QUINN works for a phone sex hotline. A GAY ONE. Is she a lesbian? Is she in Chicago? At Mike's wedding last year - she looked so damn hot in that green dress - she said she was living in Orlando. If she's in Orlando this call better not come with long-distance charges on top of the per minute rate. Oh, God, does this thing have caller ID? I should hang up. JUST HANG UP, GODDAMN IT! _

In spite of her better judgement, Santana stayed on the line. Hearing the once high and mighty Quinn Fabray talk dirty sent a white hot surge of arousal straight through Santana and she was aching for relief. There was no turning back now.

"Uhm..." Santana shook off her shock, cleared her throat and raised her voice a few octaves in hopes of disguising herself. "...Yeah. Yeah. I'm right here."

"Good. Sure is a sexy voice that came out of your mouth. What else can you do with your mouth?"

_Holy fucking shit. _While the wind raged outside, Santana's room had become unbearably hot. She tore off her Louisville sweatshirt and slowly exhaled before putting the phone back up to her ear. She heard Quinn giggle.

"Okay, so you're a shy one. Let's slow it down. Where would you like to start?"

Still more than a little bit flustered, Santana clumsily replied, "What are you wearing?"

Embarrassed, Santana rolled her eyes. The most cliché line in the phone sex handbook. Well, there was nowhere to go from here but up.

Quinn didn't seem to mind the amateurish question. "Mmm. Short, pleated skirt. Matching tanktop. I suppose you could say it's something a cheerleader might wear."

A snapshot of the more mature 25-year-old Quinn sauntering down the halls of McKinley High in her Cheerios uniform - ponytail tight and head bitch in charge smirk etched on her too-pretty face - entered Santana's mind. She almost entertained the idea that she actually _missed _Quinn. Almost.

The brunette heard a breathy sigh, and then, "I forgot to put on my spanks, though."

_She is so much better at this than I am. That is not okay. _

Always up for a competition with her best frenemy from high school, Santana knew she had pick up the pace. She'd be damned to hell before Quinn Fabray dominated her at phone sex.

Gathering up more confidence, Santana slipped off her bottoms and tossed them aside. She ran her free hand over her breasts, which were only covered by the thin fabric of her undershirt.

"Perfect," Santana said. "Then it'll be easier for me to fuck you with that skirt on."

"Kinky, kinky," Quinn whispered. "I like it. I want to sit on those fingers and ride you hard in my little red skirt."

Santana bit her lip to stifle a whimper. Maybe she could get on board with Quinn in control after all. With bated breath, her whole body throbbed in anticipation of Quinn's next words.

"But only if you let me suck on your pretty tits while I'm on top of you. Take off your shirt for me, baby."

_Damned to hell it is, then._ Santana did as she was told and shuddered as droplets from her wet hair slowly fell down her chest and reached her hardened nipples. She finally slipped her hand past the waistband of her black underwear to run one trembling finger up the length of a warm, dripping core.

As Quinn let out several skillful moans, Santana began to rub tight, rapid circles over her slick folds.

"You feel so good inside of me, baby."

The mere thought of Quinn saying these things while grinding on her was enough to drive Santana close to the edge. After going so long without an encounter as hot as this, Santana knew that she wouldn't last another minute.

"Oh..."

"Yeah, baby. Mmm, just like that. Fuck me just like that."

Trying to keep up with Quinn's increasingly lewd noises, Santana's mind went into overdrive. Her fingers pumped and curled, doing everything to herself that she imagined doing to Quinn.

"Oh...oh fuck."

She put more pressure on her sensitive bundle of nerves, preparing to come undone. Abruptly, Quinn stopped and went silent.

Thinking the call had been disconnected, Santana's lidded eyes shot open. After slightly composing herself she realized that Quinn was still on the line. The brunette growled in frustration.

"Wh-why'd you stop?"

Quinn giggled. Santana was inches away from release and this girl had the nerve to _giggle _about it.

"You fucking tease."

"Who, me? No, baby. I just want to get you off first."

Despite herself, Santana smiled. She pictured Quinn hovering above her, hazel eyes shyly twinkling as she said those words. To her chagrin, Santana felt a pang of affection for the blonde that had long since disappeared, and she promptly forced it away. This was not a situation that welcomed emotions.

"Then get your sweet ass between my legs."

Santana thought she heard a sharp intake of breath on the other line, but she was too riled up to read into it.

"What are you going to do to me, _Lucy_?"

"I'm gonna lick you dry."

_Aye dios mio. _Santana resumed her jolting movements and, with the help of Quinn's expert encouragement, she quickly regained her high. She blocked out any and all thoughts beyond that moment, submitting completely to the voice spurring her on.

Clutching the phone close and writhing in a naked sweat, Santana frantically gyrated her hips into her free hand, convincing herself that her fingers were Quinn's wicked tongue instead.

"Come for me, baby."

Quinn's command rang lyrically in Santana's ear and she lost all control. Santana called out to God because this was it, this was the closest to heaven she'd ever get. She saw stars and sparks and Quinn's face as she came hard. It took everything she had not to scream the blonde's name.

Entirely spent, Santana struggled to control her ragged breathing. Unmoving, she listened to the girl on the other end of the line breathe softly and steadily. If Santana closed her eyes it was almost as if Quinn was lying there next to her.

_Is that what I want? _Santana cursed her stupid sappy heart. This was getting way too intimate for a Wednesday night.

To Santana's relief, Quinn broke the relative silence first. "How are you feeling?"

Still out of breath, the brunette let out a short laugh. "Great. I feel great." A beat. "Um. I don't really know what to say now. I mean, I guess...thanks? Thanks. I needed that."

"Anytime, Santana."

The phone fell from a trembling hand, slid off the disheveled bed and landed with a loud crunch on the wooden floor. Suddenly, it wasn't just hard for Santana to breathe. It was impossible to.


End file.
